Chapter 2: What's your first move?
Keep following Tori Daniels as she learns more about who she can trust in her new role at Lynch Global, uncovers secrets, and finds herself in a dicey situation she'll have a hard time evading...
The silence in here is so palpable it fits me like a second skin, a loose shroud that feels like an animated memory I do not want reawakened.
Is this what déjà vu feels like? Or is it jamais vu?
Maybe I’m lingering in the Bardo?
No, no, this must be concocted by Oneiros or whomever or whatever exists as the true keeper of all chimeras.
How is it possible to know where I am and what’s about to happen yet have no clue at all?
As I cross the threshold of what should be a living sanctuary, my heart thunders inside my chest, beating against the usual nature of time and sound and all materiality, belatedly alerting me to the vivid reality of mortality emerging before me as this new skin I don’t want envelops me.
The stark scene I encounter depicts her prone body lying on the floor. Its right arm is extended toward something unseen and out of reach and its legs are loosely arranged as if it is nothing more than a human-sized mat that will reanimate itself at any second, though I’m already certain it won’t. I mean, that she won’t … reanimate. I am profoundly certain of this deep within my bones, which are now trapped inside this new phantom skin I want to shed more than anything, long before I move to check for signs of life, her life.
Out of obligation, however, I lean over her supine figure lying inside the entrance to her massive boutique-sized walk-in closet to check for a pulse, her pulse, because it’s vitally important to verify these sorts of things, specifically when you believe you already know what the inevitable outcome will be and that it won’t disclose anything different from what you have already perceived. One always needs verifiable proof of non-life and beliefs and gut feelings in spite of what they expect to find.
That’s the thing no one will ever tell you about death— how its underlying violence comes more from what it lacks rather than what or who caused it. That death is the absence of all breath, all life, all living. Death is eternal silence, not whatever act or condition brought about its silence. Yet death’s lack of noise and sensory impressions remain perceptible somehow, detectable and discernible only to the living, particularly through their ephemeral dreams and nightmares. Death is a living paradox.
There is no blood or sign of injury or struggle here. There is also no indication of life and that she will reawaken. There is no there there. There is no her there, here. But I check for vital signs of life a second time anyway, again rudely confronted with the paradox that nothingness can exist. That she can not exist.
The erratic rhythms of my breath animate me, finally syncing the heartbeats inside my head and chest, urging me to move.
Instinctively I reach for my phone to text Charlie, who is waiting downstairs in the kitchen for us. She had sent me upstairs to fetch her mother, whose corpse I am leaning over, so she obviously needs to know what is going on ASAP. But what exactly am I supposed to text her?
Sorry. Can’t come down right away. Found your mother dead in her closet. Maybe you can come up instead? And call 9-1-1 while you’re at it. You know, just in case?
Panicked, I send an equally ridiculous message I can’t fully decipher through the tears now streaming down my face, then immediately chastise myself for not calling emergency responders first despite believing their efforts will prove fruitless, lifeless. Then I chastise myself a second time for not calling out her name first, to be absolutely one hundred percent sure she won’t respond before I pronounce her dead in my head without incontrovertible tangible proof.
Could that kill her? My inability to call out to her as if she still exists. Or my profound disbelief in her existence.
Shit.
“Mrs. Baezas?”
As predicted, nothing.
“Mrs. Baezas!”
Still no response, no movement.
I gently shake the back of her shoulder, still unable to see her face.
“Andy!”
Dead silence.
“Anddyyy?!”
A loud thud followed by a sharp clicking sound reverberates across the room. Then everything goes pitch black.
The click I heard sounded like the hammer of a pistol being cocked back, which makes no sense in this place.
Andy doesn’t, or didn’t, believe in guns. She was adamantly opposed to guns, actually. There’s no way there’s a gun in this room, her sanctuary. Or anywhere near her. She would never allow it. Even if she and everything else had gone … dormant, for now.
Yet I can’t shake the feeling that there’s a gun barrel pointed at the center of my head from somewhere deep inside the darkness now surrounding me. While I can’t see the perceived gun or its shadow, its wielder, or anything else for that matter, because everything around me is cloaked in blackness, I still know it’s there and aimed directly at me.
Does this mean I’m dead too?
No way. There’s no way I would know if I was dead, if I was truly dead, would I? Would I—
“Tori?”
Right as I’m nearing the edge of some sort of dramatic semi-existential crisis, I hear a voice in the blackness calling my name. A sign of life. So, I know I’m still alive. For now, anyway. Because if someone is acknowledging me, calling out for me, then I must still be alive, yes? Maybe even safe?
“Tori?”
It’s the same voice calling out my name again, and it sounds a lot like … Sebastian?
What the hell is he doing here? He wasn’t here when I found—
“Tori, wake up. I’m here to talk to you about the meeting this morning and what comes next.”
My eyes spring open and I bolt upright, a tsunami of embarrassment washing over me.
“Sorry, so sorry. I must have dozed off,” I chirp out awkwardly as I move to smooth out the front of my blouse and try to discreetly wipe the corners of my mouth to confirm I hadn’t drooled all over myself, then glance down at the throw pillow my head was on to make sure there wasn’t anything on it either, which there isn’t, not even a blot of mascara. Thank God.
“I get it. We had a late night last night.” Sebastian smiles at me when my eyes finally meet his and I can’t help but smile back, which he promptly takes as an invitation to sit down on the chair opposite me.
“I’m impressed you’re already finding your office so comfortable. It was months before I was able to nap in mine.”
Yet again it’s hard to tell if he’s mocking me or not. Regardless, his sudden nearness and amused smile are making me feel uneasy, so I immediately get up to get a glass of water.
Reality has flooded in, reminding me how imperative it is that I maintain my distance from Sebastian and stay vigilant whenever he’s around.
I’m also incredibly parched. I must have had over six or seven cups of coffee since midnight, or whatever that excessive amount of coffee is when its caffeine starts having reverse effects and makes you more lethargic and tired instead of more awake and energized.
After Sebastian and I had learned about Ezra’s article Philanthropy Princess or Philandering Phony? we stayed up all night trying to devise a response for Lynch Global, ultimately deciding that no response was the best response. For the next twenty-four hours anyway. Though I know I’ll have to come up with something, anything, much sooner than that if I want to take full advantage of this once-in-a lifetime opportunity Sebastian’s offering me, and if I want to continue to pursue my own agenda at Parrot and Lynch Global.
I need to come up with a narrative that will redeem Andy’s legacy at the Lynch Foundation, as well as the broader public perception of her entire family and Lynch Global, well before the annual Rose Gala next month. If I work hard enough, and stay awake long enough, I might even be able to draft it well before Andy’s funeral tomorrow.
I can’t afford to blow this chance. Not after everything my mother went through and how hard I worked to get here, and definitely not when Charlie needs me most.
I pour myself a full glass of water from the fresh pitcher someone must have left on the side table in front of the floor-to-ceiling window I’m now looking out of, completely lost in thought.
I’m confident I’ll be able to pull something off soon because I am nothing if not resourceful in a pinch. A life full of hard knocks will do that to you. That, and make you rationally skeptical yet hopeful when someone with the user name An0nymoUS1 sends you an encrypted message with a link to encrypted files at the exact moment you learn that your newly elected PR subject desperately needs any useful information you can get your hands on as soon as possible— as all those things happening at the same time cannot be mere coincidence. The catch being, however, because there’s always a catch, that you also believe you’re hopeful and resourceful enough to figure out how to decrypt the jump drive An0nymoUS1 instructed you to download the encrypted files onto without An0nymoUS1 knowing that you did so before they tell you when or why you should be decrypting the files since An0nymoUS1 also instructed you to wait for further instructions to decrypt the mysterious files.
All I need is time, expertise, faith, and resources I don’t have, to do something I don’t know how to do, with something that could unleash unimaginable destruction across international Lynch Global systems, possibly the world.
No big deal. I’m not sweating, you’re sweating.
I gulp down half of the water in the glass, then quickly top it off.
I, of course, never told Sebastian about the encrypted message and files I received from An0nymoUS1. I didn’t want him to think I was crazy or paranoid, or worse, gullible and woefully inexperienced. Besides, I have zero clue what to believe or think about the files themselves let alone who had sent them and why just yet, as I haven’t actually been able to access any of them. Hell, I’m still not convinced I should ever access them!
I take a large sip of water.
For all I know An0nymoUS1 could be some bored teenage prankster with nothing better to do than wreak havoc across a large computer network simply for the thrill and notoriety of it, which would prove equally dangerous and obnoxious.
Or maybe An0nymoUS1 was some black hat trying to use me as bait to hack into Lynch Global systems via my access to those systems, which would also prove dangerous.
How am I supposed to know, based on what I know, which isn’t all that much?
I take another sip.
Not to mention, I still don’t know who told Sebastian about Ezra’s explosive article before I received An0nymoUS1’s cryptic message. Or how Sebastian had otherwise learned about the article before I did, even if it was only by minutes.
Was the timing of An0nymoUS1’s cryptic message suspicious? Undoubtedly.
I take another huge gulp of water then, very inelegantly, set the glass down on the edge of my desk, which Sebastian is now leaning against. The glass nearly topples over, but I’m able to stand it upright before it drenches everything in its path, including Sebastian’s backside, which I was definitely not expecting to see there.
When did he even move over here? And why does he always insist on being so close? He must be one of those people who have no concept of personal space. That would explain it, along with some of the many scandalous things I’ve heard about him over the years.
Luckily, he’s too preoccupied with whatever’s on his phone to notice my anxious behavior and how I can’t stop studying him, desperately searching for all the answers he hasn’t given me and probably never will.
Somehow Sebastian had learned about Ezra’s article before Ezra had texted me its shortlink. But how? Who was working with or for Sebastian that would know that sort of thing? There’s no way it was Ezra. From what I understand, they never even talk to each other. Ezra would reach out to me or someone else at Parrot before he’d ever reach out to Sebastian.
Still, Sebastian never disclosed how he knew what he knew to me, so I don’t feel the need to disclose what I know to him, which again, isn’t really anything at all when you think about it.
He puts his phone in his front right pocket, crosses his arms over his chest, then leans his upper body toward mine.
“Still thirsty?” he asks, with a mischievous grin, gesturing toward the half-empty glass sitting on the desk between us.
“Um, no. I’m good, thanks. You?” I stammer out like a complete moron.
“I’m always thirsty,” he says with a smirk on his face that makes my face go hot in milliseconds.
Without hesitating, I grab the glass, refill it, then hand it to him, making sure our fingers do not touch.
He inspects the glass for a beat, like it’s the oddest object he’s ever been handed before, then sets it back down on the desk and looks at me with a sober expression.
“So, what’s your first move as interim head of PR going to be?”
He asks me this question casually, like my role and title have already been defined and decided, like I can immediately do whatever I want. Just like that. Which is equally alarming and liberating.
I take a literal and figurative step back.
“Don’t we have to wait for the board’s approval? And for your father to—”
“— stop being an elitist misogynistic bullying prick?”
I unintentionally snort at Sebastian’s inflammatory interruption.
He lets out a light laugh.
I’m mortified.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed at that.”
“Tori,” he says, his face growing more serious, “please, don’t ever apologize for judging my father’s despicable behavior. Otherwise, you’ll never stop apologizing. And you have better things to do with your time. Especially now. Trust me.”
Seriously, I can’t seem to figure Sebastian out, or what makes him tick. It’s like the harder I try, the more confusing he becomes. He clearly cares about Lynch Global and Parrot and his family’s reputation, but doesn’t seem too worried about what others, including his father and the board, think or do. Visions of his diverse bookshelves keep resurfacing in my mind too, making me second-guess everything I ever thought I knew about him.
I nod tentatively. “Duly noted. But we still need to wait for the board’s approval, don’t we?”
I keep saying ‘we’ even though I’m not convinced there is a ‘we’ here, or if there ever will be. Sebastian and I might as well have lived on different planets our entire lives, the way we each operate by a totally different set of rules— if he even follows a set of rules at all, that is. And there is no way that has changed overnight.
“I know it may not seem like the meeting this morning with the board yielded much, Tori. But trust me, it did.”
There he goes again using that ‘trust’ word and smiling at me reassuringly.
Ugh! Why? Why does he have to be so nice to me? This would be so much easier and less confusing to deal with if he was never nice or charming.
“It went very well, actually. I can already tell that we have their attention and imminent approval. We’ll get something written up for you over the weekend to make everything legit come Monday. Then we’ll announce everything internally, your new title and position, before announcing it to the press and the rest of the world. The board would never agree to anything like that out loud with my father in the room though. He’s a bully, you know.”
Sebastian assesses me to see how I’ll respond. And just like that, I feel like I’m being entrapped somehow.
I don’t say or do anything, so he continues.
“The board is used to appeasing my father and his ego when he’s present at whatever board meetings he randomly decides to attend. That way, once the meetings are over and he’s gone, they can actually go do whatever they really need to do for the betterment of the entire organization.”
He draws a deep breath, then exhales loudly.
Then, as if he’s reading my mind, he adds, “My father just wants to be heard and seen, so we all let him pretend that he’s running everything going on around him. We play along with the charade to make him feel better about himself and to avoid his toddler-like tantrums. Most of the time, it’s incredibly annoying and inconvenient. But believe me, we’re the ones who will get things done around here. We’re the ones who call all the shots. And we’re all looking forward to you being in this new role.”
The more disloyal Sebastian seems toward his father, the more tempted I am to not only trust him but feel one of the absolute worst feelings I could possibly feel right now: hope. Hope for myself, a brighter future, a real family. Hope for certain members of the Lynch family and the justice they deserve. Hope for the inevitable fate of Lynch Global and those arenas that surpass even their toxic reach.
There is absolutely no way I am about to trust such a dangerous feeling, even if, for a split second, I want to believe that Sebastian might be able and willing to help me with my own, currently incognito, long-term agenda at Parrot and Lynch Global. Because, in my experience, hope is like a drug with narcotic effects that kills its users, especially when it’s abused or poorly dispensed.
I am also struggling with this ‘we’ Sebastian keeps referring to because it doesn’t really sound like I’m a part of it, or that it’s the same ‘we’ I keep referring to. Not entirely anyway.
I’m suppressing the urge to pour myself another glass of water to give myself something to do under Sebastian’s watchful eye. He’s watching me like a hawk now. Or maybe I’m simply projecting my own insecurities and trauma onto the situation and the words he said?
Though what Aster Lynch said at the meeting this morning is still echoing across my mind after it triggered an avalanche of all the egregious and awful things he has said and done over the years, pummeling me and testing my resolve. Specifically, what he did to my mother. Which is something that I will never be able to forgive or forget.
What Aster Lynch and his ilk did to my mother is the primary reason I decided to venture into these ill shark-infested waters of Parrot and Lynch Global in the first place. And vengeance will be mine.
Sebastian is unabashedly staring at me now, concern written all over his face.
Ugh! Why? Why does he have to look at me like that? Why does he have to look like he cares so much?
I have to keep reminding myself that Sebastian Lynch, no matter how much I want to trust him, is still Aster Lynch’s only son, and therefore heir to Aster’s dynasty of destruction. We may be siblings biologically, but Sebastian and I come from two extremely different women with two extremely different backgrounds.
Yes, Sebastian and I share the same biological father. But regardless of the blood we share, Aster Lynch has never, and will never, be a father to me. Not in the same way he is to Sebastian. And who knows what that means for the future of whatever relationship Sebastian and I are starting to form now, once he figures out what I’ve been planning all along.
For the time being, however, I can’t appear too eager or flippant about whatever Sebastian expects me to do next as Lynch Global’s interim head of PR. So instead, I’ll be playfully brazen. So far, this approach seems to put him at ease the most, since he seems to hate it when I’m overly formal or apologetic.
“Sebastian, this morning your father said that I was, and I quote, ‘an inexperienced nobody from nowhere who doesn’t matter,’ out loud, in front of everyone on the board.”
His laugh is so loud and unexpected it makes me flinch.
“Tori, my father says shit like that about everyone when he first meets them. It’s basically how he says hello to anyone who isn’t more powerful than him. He’s probably even said shit like that about me before, his one and only son.”
Sebastian laughs again, an explosive, gruff laugh.
I get the urge to chuck one of the throw pillows on the sofa at him, to treat him like the annoying sibling I know he really is, to make up for all the time and teasing we missed out on not growing up together. But the urge dissipates as soon as I begin to wonder how he’ll take the news, if or when I ever tell him how we’re related. My stomach sinks when I think about him recoiling in disgust.
The office door opens halfway and a man around Sebastian’s age, or slightly younger, pokes his head inside as he knocks. He has a wary look on his face, likely roused by Sebastian’s raucous laughter.
“Lucas, come on in.” Sebastian greets the man with a handshake and seems genuinely pleased to see him. But it’s harder to tell whether the new arrival, Lucas, is similarly pleased to see Sebastian.
After shaking Sebastian’s hand, Lucas steps all the way into the office, then nods hello to me.
“Can you tell Tori here what my father said to you the first time you met him in person?”
Lucas smiles uncomfortably, though Sebastian doesn’t seem to notice or care.
“It’s alright, I don’t think she scares all that easily.” Sebastian says this with a wink aimed in my direction.
“It’s been a long time, but I think he said I was a pissant or peasant, something like that. A no name from nowhere important who—”
“See Tori?” Sebastian is almost gleeful. “My father says shit like that to everyone all the time.”
Sebastian pats Lucas on the back, a bit harder than is appropriate based on the way Lucas lurches forward, then asks, “Now what is it that you do at Lynch Global, Lucas?”
“Anything you or your father want done.” Lucas answers in a monotone without moving, though it’s easy to deduce how uneasy he is participating in Sebastian’s juvenile pop quiz.
Sebastian pauses to consider Lucas’s response, surprising us both, before following up with, “I mean, what is your current title at Lynch Global?”
“Head of cyber security, sir.”
“Sir?” Sebastian frowns disapprovingly, then chuckles. “Lucas, we’re friends. What the hell? I know we’re at work and all, but you can still call me Bash here.”
“Of course,” Lucas responds with a polite nod, neither confirming nor denying Sebastian’s claim, or doing as he asked.
“Well, it looks like you two have some work to do. Tori, I’ll stop by whenever Lucas is done here and take you out to lunch.”
“I’m sorry? Done with what exactly?”
Ugh. I’m starting to get on my own nerves. I can’t seem to stop compulsively apologizing for nothing at all, all the time now. It’s like all I’ve been doing for the past twenty-four hours is apologizing to Sebastian Lynch, and it’s getting old, real fast. Who cares if he’s getting sick of it? I’m getting sick of it! Since when did I become such a spineless cringey dud?!
Both men are looking at me like I just spontaneously sprouted wings or something equally outrageous, and I’m nearly convinced they just heard me scolding myself in my head until Sebastian finally says something.
“Lucas is here to reconfigure your laptop so you’ll be able to securely access anything you might need to access at Lynch Global moving forward.” The duh is implied in his tone.
“Right,” I say, not quite sure if he should be the one feeling stupid, or if I should be the one feeling stupid, because as far as I knew, I already had access to everything at Lynch Global I would ever need to access. Well, everything except those encrypted files anyway. That is, if they are Lynch Global files?
“I’ll be back to take you to lunch in an hour.” Sebastian turns and heads toward the door.
“Actually, I have plans to meet Charlie soon,” I end up announcing to his back.
Sebastian turns to face me slowly. His measured movements indicate how agitated he probably is, so I hold my breath and brace for impact. But the impact never comes. Instead, he speaks in a voice so low I have a hard time hearing him.
“Of course. Good thinking. You should see where her head is at. Great first step today.”
I manage to mumble out a thank you I don’t really mean.
“I’ll stop by later today then, to debrief whatever you and Charlie end up talking about.” That amused grin of his eclipses his entire face again, making me queasy. “Bye for now, neighbor,” he adds with a wink, then leaves before I can say anything else.
“Don’t worry,” Lucas says from behind my desk once Sebastian is gone. “You’ll probably never really get used to it.”
“What’s that?” I ask, fixated on the door Sebastian just exited. The residual effects of his presence are making me a bit dazed and confused.
“The way they just expect things to happen exactly as they want them to happen whenever they want them to happen, without ever truly considering or consulting you or anyone else.”
“Oh, sure, yeah,” I agree lazily.
My stomach complains, loudly, and I instantly regret all the water I just guzzled. Anxious or not, why did I have to go and do that? Now my stomach is full and sloshy and starting to hurt.
“But it does get easier to navigate over time,” Lucas says.
“Mmhmm,” I hum under my breath.
“And one day, it might even provoke you enough to grow a stronger backbone, if you let it.”
Okay, this comment gains my complete attention.
I whirl around to face him.
“Excuse me?” I try to sound as if I genuinely hadn’t heard him. Otherwise, the fury bubbling up inside my chest is bound to spill out, along with the half gallon of water I just swallowed.
He’s looking down at my laptop screen with a smug expression on his face, already fully immersed in whatever it is that he’s doing, which only serves to piss me off more. He clearly doesn’t care about the impact of his words.
Who the hell does he think he is? Coming in here uninvited, by me at least, resuming to sit down at my desk, invade my computer, and act like he knows anything about me or the condition of my backbone? A backbone that is very much intact, literally and figuratively, thank you very much. The nerve! Where does he, a complete stranger, get off saying such a thing to me? Judging me like that?
Realization dawns on me.
Aaahhh! Damnit.
I know exactly who he is. He is probably one of the only people at Lynch Global who can help me decrypt the files An0nymoUS1 told me to download, that’s who.
Ugh.
Best play nice for now, or try to, even if he is being a complete jerk. And, one could argue, a complete hypocrite, given how he responded to Sebastian all of two minutes ago.
“Listen, I’m just trying to help,” Lucas says as he continues to type.
“Is that so?” I can’t help it. The incredulity fizzles off my tongue before I can stop it, and my stomach audibly churns again.
“Just talk to my mother if you ever need help, okay? She’s been here for over a decade now. She knows better than anyone else here how to deal with them.” His gaze wanders toward the door, then me, then falls back to the screen in front of him again.
It’s hard to miss how he says ‘them’ with a glimmer of contempt in his voice. It makes me feel a little warmer toward him and even helps cool some of the heat that was overtaking my body. But I’ll be damned if I let him know any of that before I know whose side he’s really on.
“Who is your mother?” I ask as casually as I can muster.
“You met her this morning. Moira Jackson.”
“Your mother is the treasurer of the board for Lynch Global?”
“Mmhmm.” Lucas keeps typing without making eye contact, nonchalant and unbothered.
“Is she how you got your job here then? It certainly wasn’t your people skills.”
The comment rolls off my tongue, a crass grenade, before I can swallow its blast. But Lucas doesn’t seem to register the clumsily intended impact of the rude jab at all. Or simply decides to take it in stride.
“No. We both started working for Lynch around the same time,” is his straight-forward, unperturbed response.
Clack. Click. Tap. Click. Tap. Clack. Clack. Click. Tap.
Maybe he isn’t a hypocrite after all? He just accepted the same type of rudeness he dished out without much effort or worry. Or maybe he just doesn’t give a fuck about my presence or opinion? Which is much more likely.
Either way, I still question the validity of his claim, that he’s been working for Lynch for over a decade. It’s hard to believe he’s a year or more over thirty. Not with that bored expression, sculpted physique, and insolent disposition of his. Well, come to think of it … maybe that does make his claim easier to believe. Which means he must have started working for the company when he was a teenager or in his early twenties?
I watch him closely as he continues to clack away on my keyboard, assuming he’s utterly uninterested in all the questions streaming through my mind, or in my existence at all when, to my surprise, he looks directly at me.
“I started working for Lynch back in 2016. Well, technically I started working for Julian Baezas first. He’s the one who discovered me and my work and gave me a chance to build something world-changing, before Aster took over operations at Datum Analytica and Lynch. I’ve been working for the family ever since, and Julian, sometimes.” He said everything in one long weary breath, like he’s tired of needing to explain himself all the time— and like he hadn’t just offhandedly admitted to working for Datum Analytica, the political consulting firm that, according to Ezra’s incendiary article, notoriously swayed the outcome of the 2016 presidential election, and then some.
I can still see the emboldened headlines flashing across my mind all these years later.
Over 50 Million US Voters’ Data Hacked
Was Incognito behind the Datum Analytica scandal?
Datum Analytica Accused of Manipulating 2016 Presidential Election
Stillson Campaign Hired Then Fired Datum Analytica
Datum Analytica Used FEED User Data Without Users’ Consent
CEO Mike Eisenberg Denies FEED’s Role in Datum Analytica Scandal
Datum Analytica Claims ‘Secret Sauce’ Helped Stillson
The journalist-trained portion of my brain has a million questions it’s dying to ask Lucas about Datum Analytica and all the things he knows about the Lynches and their projects, particularly the lesser-known, seedier projects. But the newly activated Head of PR portion of my brain knows it’s best to be patient and gain his trust first, and to keep him as close as possible. And the best way to do that? Make him believe I need his help with anything cyber-security or technology related— which, as luck would have it, just so happens I do— while stroking his ego, obviously.
“So, if you started working for the Lynches in 2016, that would mean you were only, what, like eighteen at the time?”
“Nineteen, but yeah.” He looks up at me with an intense and unreadable expression. “But no one other than me had anything to do with Julian discovering me and my work or landing the job I had then at Datum Analytica or the job I have now.”
“Oh, of course.” I lower my voice deferentially. “I was just going to say how impressive that is. And that you must really know what you’re doing then. Mr. Baezas and the Lynch men aren’t known for hiring fools, you know?”
I smile at Lucas, unable to tell if he’s buying my act or not. Though, to be fair to myself, I’m not exactly lying.
It is impressive as hell that Lucas landed such a ‘world-changing’ gig at such a young age, even if it was liable to make me more suspicious than adoring of his talents and capabilities. In fact, now that I know a little more about his background and what he’s worked on in the past, his talents and capabilities downright terrify me. If he’s capable of building something to manipulate hacked user data to upend a presidential election, what else is he capable of building, willing to build, or do?
But there’s no way I’m going to let him know those fears and concerns of mine either. Not until I know whose side he’s on, and or I’m able to leverage those talents and capabilities of his for my benefit first.
“Sure,” he says with the same unreadable expression, then adds, “Listen, this might take a while. And it’s almost lunch time, so—”
“Shit! What time is it?”
I start frantically looking around the room for my phone.
“Eleven twenty-two,” he says coolly, already refocused on whatever he’s doing to my computer.
I’m supposed to meet Charlie in eight minutes. I need to text her to let her know I’m running late.
“Your phone is by your feet,” Lucas says, still staring at the computer screen in front of him, typing and tapping away.
“Thanks.” I lunge for my phone and quickly swipe away most of the notifications that had come in while I was asleep, stopping as soon as I see a meeting invite from Moira Jackson for later this afternoon.
Rose Gala Budget and Finances
I click on the invite. All its description says is: We need to talk ASAP. Come alone. URGENT
“Is your mother always this cryptic and dramatic? Geesus,” I grumble without thinking.
Lucas’s head perks up.
“Moira Jackson is the most level-headed person around here. Ask anyone. Why? What did she say?”
Lucas is looking at me now, his face full of concern.
I hadn’t expected him to hear me much less respond, so I force a shrug to appear unbothered by his spastic response, hoping to hold his attention for as long as I can. There are so many things I need to ask him about. But I obviously can’t unleash all my questions at once. Not until I’m sure doing so won’t backfire or disrupt my agenda in some way.
“Oh, nothing. She just wants to meet to discuss the finances for the Rose Gala, urgently.” I give him a half-cocked smile after I emphasize the word ‘urgently.’
“Then it’s probably best you meet her as soon as you can,” he says without a hint of levity or sarcasm in his voice.
I relax my expression and nod, trying to mirror his severity. The last thing I want Lucas to think is that I don’t take him or his mother seriously. I do. Remember how I mentioned being terrified of his talents and capabilities before? I meant it. But getting all doomsday about a bunch of financial spreadsheets does seem a bit over-the-top, doesn’t it?
Lucas stares at me vacantly for a few seconds, like he’s actively assessing my trustworthiness on some imaginary digital barometer that only he can see in the periphery of his vision, as if he’s wearing a headset and we’re in some sort of simulation. Then, as if finally satisfied with the results that only he is privy to, he bows his head and gets back to work.
I promptly accept the meeting with Moira then text Charlie to let her know I’m on my way to our usual meet-up spot. She texts back within seconds saying she’ll see me there, which means she’s probably running a few minutes late too, allowing me to breathe a little easier.
I’m looking forward to seeing Charlie and can’t bear the thought of disappointing her right now, not even in a seemingly insignificant way, by being late. Most members of the Lynch family are volatile enigmas to me, but Charlie and her mother have always been exceptions, always providing bright beacons of warmth and light.
I swear I feel Lucas’s eyes on me the whole time I’m texting Charlie, but when I look up, he still seems engrossed by whatever he’s doing on my laptop.
“I’ll head out and let you do your thing. I’ll be back in an hour or so,” I announce as I grab my bag and head toward the door, stopping short of opening it.
There is at least one question I need to ask Lucas before I leave.
“Just out of curiosity, Mister ...?”
He looks at me straight on, clearly annoyed.
“My last name is Brady. Most people who know me around here call me Brady.”
Was that meant to imply that Sebastian didn’t know him, that I was supposed to know him, or that few people around here actually know him? Maybe all the above?
Wait.
Brady?
The infamous Brady?
I do actually know him. Or, I know of him, I should say. Who at Lynch doesn’t?
For years I’ve heard sporadic whispers around the office about someone named Brady, who is commonly revered and feared as being one of the Lynches prominent fixers.
His jaded attitude and unsolicited presence in my office are starting to make a lot more sense to me now. Sort of.
Lucas Brady, the Phantom Fixer, which he’s also known as, who is currently in my office, must have a gleaming treasure trove, no an entire glorious mountain, full of dirt on the Lynches. Best play nice with him for now indeed. Right after I get a hold of my growing paranoia. Because, as I begin to appreciate this revelation regarding his identity, I also can’t help but wonder what the hell he’s really doing on my computer, and whether or not I should start to worry.
But instead of asking him anything I actually want to ask him, I ask, “Why don’t they call you Lucas?” like a complete idiot.
“Not sure. People call me all sorts of things, from what I hear through the grapevine.” He smirks to himself for a beat then sighs, bored again. “Why do people call you Tori instead of Victoria or Daniels?”
He already knows my full name?
Duh. Of course he does. He probably knows everything there is to know about everyone around here. Which is both intimidating and exciting.
Since his question was purely rhetorical, he doesn’t bother waiting for a response.
“So, what is it that you wanted to ask me … Tori?”
Lucas, I mean Brady, says my name like it’s an accusation, and his eyes start boring a hole right into the side of my skull. I swear it feels like it’s possible for him to reach right in and grab whatever contents he wants from my mind. All of my secrets and intentions are exposed for him to take right now, though I’m not sure he’s interested in claiming them.
Exactly how much does this man already know about me anyway?
“I’m sorry, wha… what?” I stammer, once I realize he’s waiting for a response this time.
I try to convince myself there’s no logical reason to be paranoid or spiral because, even if Lucas does know who I am and the role I have at Lynch Global, there’s absolutely no way he can know what I’m planning to do at this point. Unless he really is a mind reader, which is, of course, ridiculous.
There’s no way Lucas could know anything because I haven’t uttered a single word of my plans to anyone but Ezra. And even Ezra doesn’t know the full scale of what I’ve been planning, only bits and pieces.
No, Lucas only knows what Sebastian has told him about me before he showed up to reconfigure my computer, that’s all, and probably just thinks of me as another nuisance he needs to deal with on behalf of his overlords.
Still, the way he’s glaring at me right now is telling me a completely different story. A story that is way too difficult to either ignore or unpack. Hence the hum of anxiety roiling through my body, mainly my stomach. Damn my anxious compulsion to hydrate.
“You were about to ask me something,” Lucas explains, reluctantly waiting for me to get a grip. His candor is off-putting yet challenges me to match it.
“What do you know about encrypted jump drives? Or how to go about decrypting one?” I blurt.
Lucas no longer looks annoyed, but doesn’t look exactly pleased by my questions either.
Regardless, the questions are out there swimming in the air with a life all their own. I can’t take them back now. So, I might as well try to use them to secure his help. Or, at the very least, discourage any suspicions he might already have about me and my intentions.
“Don’t worry. I’m not trying to give you extra work to do or anything like that,” I say, which is a white lie. “I know how busy you must be.”
I deliberately choose to be demure instead of straight-forward, as I have been conditioned to be with most men for most of my life. Men typically like it when you appear meeker than they are, even when they know you aren’t. But this approach does not encourage him to be more genial, like it usually does with most men. Quite the opposite actually. A mask of impassive annoyance settles on his face again.
“You’re right. I am busy,” he says, then glances back at my laptop before looking up at me again, more intrigued the second time around for some reason. “But yes, to answer your question, I do know a thing or two about encryption and decryption. I built my own proprietary decryption software.”
Bingo.
My goodness, Lucas Brady, you are just full of pleasant surprises, aren’t you?
“Does it work, your software?”
“It depends.”
“On?”
“Who needs it and why.”
There are those piercing eyes of his boring a hole straight into me again.
The pleasant surprises involving his decryption software, access, and technical talents, I will gladly take. These disarming stares of his, however, I could certainly do without.
I lift my chin, a subtle gesture of self-defense.
“What if I need it?”
He’s definitely intrigued now.
“Why do you need it?”
“I don’t. Not yet. But I could. Maybe. One day. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
God, I sound like a complete imbecile.
The more tongue-tied I am, the more fascinated he becomes, which also makes it impossible for me to shut up for some inexplicable reason.
“I mean, can I get back to you on that? When, sorry I mean if not when, the need ever arises?”
His eyebrows furrow in concentration as he continues to watch me fumble my words like I’ve never uttered a coherent or sane sentence in my life. Other than that, he doesn’t move a muscle as he listens to me ramble on like a buffoon.
“If I ever decide I need it, will that be okay? Which will probably never happen. But you never know, right? You can never be too sure about these sorts of things, right?”
I feel so dumb that I almost, almost, smack myself in the forehead. I mean, someone or something needs to shut me up ASAP. Might as well be me. But something else surprising happens instead.
Lucas says, “Sure,” sincerely, sweetly even. “You know where to find me.”
Then he takes out his phone and starts typing something.
A second later, my phone vibrates.
“And now you know the best way to find me,” he adds.
“Thanks,” I whisper, as the barrage of stupidity emanating from my mouth becomes officially silenced by his unexpected kindness and willingness to help.
Great, now I want to cry.
Pull yourself together, right fucking now, Victoria Daniels!
Thankfully, Lucas speaks again before I get a chance to backslide.
“Can you tell Charlie I’m sorry about her mom when you see her? Andy was an amazing woman. She’ll be missed.”
I agree with a sad smile, then reach for the door again.
I like this softer side of Lucas Brady. I hope it’s real and that I get to see it again.
“I’m glad Charlie’s a lot like her mom. In all the ways that matter anyway,” he adds.
Of course, he decides to turn into an emotionally inclined chatty Kathy right as I’m leaving and trying to recover from my own emotionally draining episode.
I tamper the urge to roll my eyes because I want to keep him talking, for another minute at least. I just know that he knows things. Lynch-related things. Important things. Valuable things. Life-altering things. I also want to take advantage of this bonding moment before it fades away.
“You know Charlie?” I ask.
“Yeah, kind of.” He purses his lips for a beat, then keeps talking. “Andy was basically the one who got me out of the system. Without her work at the Foundation, my mom would never have been able to establish Maternity Matters or adopt me. We went to a lot of Foundation fundraisers and events when I was growing up, and Charlie was always there. She was always nice to me. So was Sunny.”
That’s a lot for me to take in.
“You were in the system?”
“Until I was ten,” he confirms.
“I wasn’t in the system until I was fourteen, after my mom …” I let my voice trail off.
I’m not about to bare my soul to this total stranger, who is conceivably dangerous, despite him becoming less and less of a stranger with each passing second.
“I’m sorry. I lost my mom too.” His eyes are brimming with empathy.
I give him a confused look because I had just agreed to meet with his mom, and she is very much alive and well.
“My other adoptive mom, Nina. She died a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it.
He gives me a sweet and comforting smile, and for the first time, I notice the dimple in his left cheek.
“I was pretty surprised that you didn’t seem all that shocked to learn Moira is my mom. But I guess it makes sense, knowing you were in the system too.”
“What do you mean?”
“The system is full of found and lost families who look nothing alike. If you’re one of the lucky ones anyway.”
I crinkle my brow.
“It’s okay to acknowledge that I’m as brown as milk chocolate while Moira is as pale as vanilla ice cream. The really white kind. I won’t judge you for that.” He’s talking to me like I’m a child, though his tone isn’t exactly unfriendly.
Not knowing anything better to say, I just nod and say, “See you when I get back,” and open the door.
“I’ll be gone by then. I’m almost done,” he clarifies.
I’m not sure why that makes me feel a rush of sadness, but it does.
I smile at him anyway.
“Thanks, Brady.”
He smiles back, allowing me to see the dimple in his cheek again.
“You’re welcome, Tori.”
When I enter The Salon, Charlie is already sitting at our usual spot at the far end of the bar, leaning over a half-full Bloody Mary. Her hair is in a sloppy bun on top of her head, and her face is devoid of any fresh makeup. She looks a bit unkempt to me but is still somehow radiant and otherworldly compared to every other mere mortal on the planet.
“Fun night last night?” I quip as I take the seat next to her, after asking Riley for a club soda and fresh basket of fries. Charlie feigns a groan, looks up at her reflection in the hazy mirror behind the bar, then quickly averts her eyes from herself.
“I’m now thoroughly convinced that my brother is the spawn of Satan, pure evil. And I know that his devilish forces triumphed last night. I swear Tori, I’m never drinking that much again.”
I can’t help but laugh. While Charlie is the polar opposite of her twin in practically every way imaginable, I’m pretty sure they would die for each other if it ever came down to it. So, I know she’s joking and decide to play along.
“If he’s Satan’s spawn, wouldn’t that make you the devil’s child too?”
Charlie sits upright so I can see the carefully poised yet righteous look on her face. “No, I am for sure the angelic twin. And he is for sure the evil twin. I think the last twenty-four hours alone prove that.”
I can only take an educated guess at what she’s referring to, but it’s impossible to argue with her. Even hungover in a semi-crowded dive bar, Charlotte Lynch-Baezas is surrounded in the halo of sunlight that’s pouring through the window behind her, as if blessed by gods.
“What did Sunny do now?” I roll my eyes playfully.
“Oh, nothing. He’s still the same Sunny. A flaming, mischievous, hot mess who acts like he’ll rule the world someday.” She laughs flippantly at that. But the truth is, Carson Lynch-Baezas probably will rule the world one day. Especially with the patriarchal, oligarchic direction everything is headed in these days. Though I wouldn’t dare say something like that aloud to Charlie, or any other Lynch. Not until the time is right.
“I was referring to what I’ve been up to for the last twenty-four hours.” Like the halo of sunlight surrounding her, she’s beaming.
“Oh?” I steel myself for impact as I take a sip of the club soda Riley just placed in front of me.
“I’ve decided to step up and continue my mother’s work at the Foundation.” Charlie sounds calm and resolute.
I let out a selfish sigh of relief. “That’s great, Charlie.”
“Yeah, I figured, why not continue the work my mother already started at the Foundation?” She leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “While avenging her.”
That was the absolute last thing I was expecting her to say, even though I obviously wholeheartedly empathize with her new long-suffering plight. What wouldn’t a young woman do to avenge a mother who was gone too soon due to the callousness of men, the world, or shitty circumstances?
“Is it really so hard to believe that I would want to rewrite the narrative they’re spinning about my mother in the press right now?”
I realize I’m frowning once I see her frowning at me.
“Of course not. I totally get it.” I attempt to sound upbeat, but my mind is whirring. If only she knew how much I understood her desire for vengeance. One day she probably will, but that day is not going to be today.
“It’s just, what about getting your PhD? You’ve been working so hard on it.”
I can’t let Charlie give up on her dreams that easily. She’s my biological cousin— though she doesn’t know this yet— but has become more like a sister to me since college. There is no way I’m going to let the Lynch family upend both of our lives without some sort of protest.
Maybe I’m not supposed to have it all, but Charlie is.
“I told them I’m taking a sabbatical.” She shrugs. “My mother and her legacy are more important right now. I can finish my PhD later.”
I nod, again unable to argue with her.
She squares her shoulders. “Besides, this way I’ll be able to expand all the literacy programs she started, and,” she takes a swig of her drink, “there is no way in hell I’m letting my uncle and his cronies get away with all the nonsense they’re trying to pull anymore.”
Is she referring to their misinformation campaigns in the press? Their persistent efforts to dismantle democracy? Their push to destroy social welfare programs and incarcerate immigrants to pad their pockets? Their aim to get rid of most citizens’ basic civil rights? Or their relentless pursuit of President Stillson’s authoritarian agenda? Or just their general assholishness? It’s hard to be sure. Regardless, I’m in.
“What do you need me to do?”
Charlie’s face lights up.
“Really, Tori? You’ll help me?”
I’m not even bending the truth when I say, “I’ll do whatever you need me to do.” But then a pang of guilt jolts through my stomach when she hugs me with such force that I nearly fall off my barstool. Or is that all the liquids I’ve been ingesting sloshing around in there again?
“Listen, Charlie, I need to tell you something first,” I say over her shoulder as I slowly detach myself from her embrace.
She reaches for the fries Riley drops off.
“It’s okay, Tori. I already know.”
Her eyes are filled with understanding and worst of all, hope. And there is no way that I’m going to be the one who takes that away from her. Not now. Not when she needs me to be on her side the most.
“I should be the one apologizing to you, Tori.” Charlie looks at me with such sincerity in her eyes that I start to feel queasier.
“I can’t believe my father put you in that situation.”
She dips a fry in ketchup and takes a bite of it.
“He knows we’re friends, and he knows the kind of war he’s starting, going over my uncle’s head like that.”
She’s talking about the obituary, not—
“I mean, I expected him to do something that would force the situation eventually. For the past week, he’s been practically mute around me unless he’s talking about how I’m going to take over mom’s role at the Foundation, and how I need to start managing everything for the upcoming gala.”
Charlie closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly, deliberately.
“Sorry, I just wish…”
I don’t say anything, giving her a few seconds to collect herself. I understand what she’s not saying.
“Tori,” she’s looking at me dead in the eyes now, “we have to find that Julia bitch and take her down.”
I’ve never seen her this fierce before. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve ever really heard her curse before, or call someone a bad name. Even though that wasn’t really their name. Whoever it was they were.
“Are you talking about the anonymous source who leaked the photos and documents about your mom?”
I feel like such a dolt, for the millionth time today.
Of course, Ezra’s article about Andy would be more upsetting to Charlie than her father’s unsanctioned obituary announcement about her future at the Foundation. Charlie had always adored her mother, who wasn’t even buried underground yet. Yes, of course, she’d want to maim anyone who defamed Andy so soon after her death. She was more accustomed to fielding her father’s and uncle’s powerplays by now than she was to avenging her mother’s honor.
Charlie places her hand on my forearm, her eyes full of hope again.
“Do you think you can get Ezra to tell you who Julia is?”
I shake my head emphatically. I don’t have to think about it.
“Ezra would die a gruesome death before he’d reveal an anonymous source to anyone, especially me. We’re like family. But when it comes to his work, he’ll always see me as his competition first. I hate to say it after what he wrote, Charlie, but Ezra Greene is one of the few journalists out there who have some integrity right now.”
Charlie considers what I said, then slumps her shoulders.
“So you think everything Ezra wrote in that blasphemous article is true?”
“Not necessarily, no.”
She is not happy with my answer.
“Tori, tell me the truth. Do you believe my mother was an adulterous, suicidal, criminal?”
I swallow hard, carefully considering what I’m about to say this time.
“I think that Ezra believes that what he wrote is true, and that he did his due diligence.”
Charlie studies the bar top, eerily still.
“But I also think there’s more to the story,” I sputter out, instantly hating myself for regurgitating the words of An0nymoUS1— the anonymous source that is currently leaving me high and dry, by the way.
Then something dawns on me.
Could An0nymoUS1 be Ezra’s source too?
“Then let’s go find the rest of the story,” Charlie proclaims, that contagious determination reappearing in her eyes, which triggers my more impulsive side.
“I know where we should start looking first,” I say without thinking. Again.
I’m ready to tell Charlie all about the encrypted drive that’s currently burning a hole in the locked top drawer of my new office desk, alert to the fact that it’s been there long enough. If An0nymoUS1 isn’t going to help me unlock its mysteries by now, it’s time to take matters into my own hands.
“Where?” Charlie is ready and raring to go.
“We need to find Lucas Brady first,” I say, stand up, then place some cash on the bar.
“Lucas Brady, the head of cyber security?” She asks this with a hint of trepidation.
“Yeah. He might still be in my office reconfiguring my laptop. We’ll be able to catch him if we hurry.”
I turn away from her, toward the door.
I’m eager to leave and find out what’s on that encrypted drive once and for all.
Screw An0nymoUS1, whoever they really are, and whatever game they’re trying to play.
“Tori, wait, there’s something you need to know about Lucas first. He’s not who you —”
I don’t make out the rest of what Charlie’s saying, or walk toward the door to leave, because two uniformed officers are blocking my path.
“Victoria Daniels?” the older, mustached officer asks, peering down at me over his large ruddy nose.
Terror strikes a chord in me, rendering me mute.
“Are you Victoria Daniels?” the younger, leaner officer asks.
“Yes, she’s Victoria Daniels. What is this about?”
Charlie is standing by my side now with a polite yet defiant demeanor only rich people know how to carry.
After Charlie confirms my identity, the younger officer stands behind me and secures a pair of metal handcuffs around my wrists as the older officer starts reciting my Miranda rights.
“Victoria Daniels, you are under arrest for the murder of Andromeda Lynch-Baezas. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say…”
I wish I could say something, anything, but the look of utter betrayal on Charlie’s face leaves me speechless, and I can no longer feel my legs as I’m escorted out of the bar.
TO BE CONTINUED …
